It
has been 33 years since I had to experience the loss of a loved one first hand.
Then, on December 14, 1968 my brother was killed by a drunk driver while
standing at the side of the road. He was 21 years old, I was twelve.

The experience that followed, my view of it all, and my eventual comforting
conclusions of what had transpired in my life is what I want to share with you.

Although I had knowledge of the passing of two of my grandparents in England who
I had never met, I had no comprehension or understanding of what death was all
about. It is not something that we are taught in school, by our parents or at
our churches, not that I was a frequent visitor.

I was home alone when the phone rang; it was the highway patrol asking to speak
to my parents about the accident involving my brother. After explaining that
they weren’t home, it was all I could do to ask, “Was he hurt?” The reply
was sympathetic, the answer was yes. I knew that I was not brave enough to
inquire further and that the officer would not be forthcoming if I had. It could
not be good news.

At times like these, friends are so important. There is nothing they can do or
say, as much as they want to. There are no comforting words that can make you
feel better. My mother had already received the news and was being comforted by
a friend and neighbour. My father was on a business trip in England and by this
time no doubt making arrangements to fly home right away.

The phone rang again. This time it was our neighbour. She was sending her son
down to pick me up. I explained the phone call from the police. By the generous
reaction of comfort, I knew that I could expect the worst.

I walked into their home less that 10 minutes later and I could tell by the
expression on everyone’s face. My brother was gone. I would never see him
again. I could never talk to him again. I could never tell him how much I would
miss him.

The days that followed were surreal. Our home filled with flowers and
sympathetic well-wishers. The counters and tables were covered with food. And
the attempts to comfort were noble, but ineffective.

I withdrew. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want anyone to talk to
me. I did not want to sit in a room full of flowers and try to find something to
say. I was totally alone, but it was the most comfortable place I could find.

My father arrived home and the funeral was held. Everyone’s sole had been
bruised to the core and we all sought refuge in our own thoughts and
conclusions. We were each too weak to offer significant support to each other
beyond pretending that we were each ok.

Life goes on as it always does and I remember the first time that an entire day
had gone without feeling the terrible pain from my loss. It was years later.
These days became more frequent and I had to stop and wonder what was happening
to me. Why was this happening?

I came to a very personal conclusion, and a very comforting one. I thought about
my brother and how wonderful he was. What his life meant to me and everyone who
knew him. With these thoughts I began to understand his immortality. I realized
that my brother had become immortal through the lessons that he had taught me
and others, which we would in turn express to our children and others still, and
which they might in turn pass on again.

I also began to realize that his love for me had become my angel, something
which would look after me in the toughest times and follow me everywhere
throughout my life. And to this extant, I can say from experience that it has.

I solemnly believe that our lessons to others and our love for them give us
immortality within their lives and the more that we give and teach, the greater
our immortality within them and the others that they effect. When we loose the
lives of the ones dear to us we can find some solitude knowing that they will
live on inside of us.

It is no wonder that the greatest pain comes from the loss of our loved ones who
give the most. They can be infant to aged, healthy or ill, but what we miss so
much from them only our hearts can understand.